


Kept Man

by esteefee



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Clothing Kink, First Time, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Suit Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:18:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows what Finch is doing; does he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kept Man

**Author's Note:**

> Editor: the excellent Mischief.

John found Logan Pierce more disturbing than he was willing to mention; handing over the watch Pierce had given him, he felt relieved of some invisible taint.

Then Finch took it and promptly smashed it under his heel.

"That was a very expensive watch," John said mildly, "not to mention a gift." Not that he gave a damn, necessarily. It seemed like everyone wanted a piece of him—Snow, Kara, Elias, Donnelly, and now this Pierce asshole.

Finch sorted through the pieces and picked out a GPS chip. John bit back a sarcastic comment. He'd screwed up by leading Pierce to Finch to begin with.

Together, John and Finch walked Bear back to the library. Bear's new-found happiness seemed contagious because Finch was smiling to himself. But John struggled with the growing weight in his chest; for some reason, all he could see was the glint of Finch's cufflinks, the perfect, crisp knot of Finch's tie. And of course, Finch's pocket square didn't match it but complemented the pattern and color.

Finch had picked out every piece of John's tux, from the satin-notched lapel to his five hundred dollar shoes.

"Look at that," Finch said with satisfaction. "Bear has his appetite back." 

"That's good news." John shrugged out of his coat and jacket and, on a whim, went over to the shelf where he kept his spare clothing. He dug past the packages of dry-cleaning and pulled out a hooded sweatshirt he'd once used on an undercover job. 

"Mr. Reese? Are you joining me for take-out?" Finch said from the other room.

"Sure. Chinese?"

"Prosperity Dumpling," Finch said, "if you're willing to pick it up?"

John hesitated. He was a little jet-lagged but he owed Finch for solving Bear's emotional crisis.

"Sure. Order it up." John pulled on the sweatshirt and joined Finch in the main room, watching as Finch lifted his head. A flash of something, quickly masked, passed over Finch's face.

"Are you cold, Mr. Reese? If so, I could turn up the heat."

"I'm fine." Satisfied, John went over to the couch and picked up a book to take with him, noticing on the way that Finch had left a hundred dollar bill for him on the table; Prosperity Dumpling stubbornly remained a cash-only establishment. 

John ignored the money and threw on his coat before heading out to pick up the food.

:::

The next morning, instead of going back to his apartment after his morning jog, John picked up some pastries and coffee and came straight to the library in his track-pants, T-shirt, and sweatshirt, only to face Finch's narrow-eyed stare as he came in.

"New number?" John said, placing the box on the table next to Finch's keyboard and taking a sip from his coffee. 

Finch sniffed. "I would have called you if there were." He held the stare a moment longer before turning away. "But while you're here, perhaps you can do a little reorganizing of the periodicals section. You're taking up entirely too much room with your accouterments."

"You mean my ordnance."

"I mean your bullets and shells and canister things."

John brushed a hand over his smile. "All right."

"I don't know why you didn't leave them over by non-fiction."

"Because you already filled up those shelves with your extra hard drives and circuit board things."

"Oh." Finch's phone rang and spared John from grinning outright. "Seems we do have a number after all."

John fetched the books and then sat close while Finch pulled up the details on their Mrs. Ethel Wiseman. The light from the computer glanced on Finch's attentive eyes, on his swiftly moving fingers—distracting as usual. It would be all too easy to think about what John couldn't have, and why he couldn't have it, except he'd already played this game with himself for too long, and he was tired of beating himself up over it. Manipulative, billionaire geniuses were apparently thick on the ground in this town. 

He focused his attention instead on Ethel Wiseman's wrinkled smile. As a sixty-five year-old widow, she looked good as a victim, but John had learned the hard way to stop making snap judgments.

He got up and grabbed his spare suit from the closet and a fresh shirt from the shelf, then changed in the latrine before leaving, careful not to let Finch catch sight of him.

:::

Mrs. Wiseman, it turned out, had a pretty slick little pyramid scheme going from her apartment in Forest Hills, but not slick enough, according to Finch, to avoid pissing off a very dangerous ex-con of her acquaintance by the name of Manny Frankel. 

Though Mrs. Wiseman insisted Manny was a complete mensch and would never harm a hair on her head, John was forced to relieve Manny of both his switchblade and his Ruger 9mm when he showed up in a snit. 

Ethel was extremely grateful and sent John off with a kiss and a bag full of assorted rugelach from the bakery down the street.

:::

John stopped at his apartment and changed back into casual clothes—this time a pair of black jeans, a T-shirt, and a fleece pullover—grabbed a clean suit still in its dry-cleaning bag, and took it and the rugelach back to the library for his debrief.

"Mrs. Wiseman said to give this to the nice young man who was so helpful," John said, dropping the bag on Finch's table before heading over to the closet.

Finch greeted his gift with silence and, when John returned, stared at his outfit with outright displeasure.

"I suppose there's some sort of explanation for this change in dress protocol? Or are you just trying to annoy me?"

"Annoy you?" John thought about being coy, but fuck it. "I won't pretend there isn't a point, but it isn't to annoy you, no."

Finch's eyes narrowed.

"Mrs. Wiseman promised no more schemes, but I'm not sure she won't pop up again. She said something about starting up a poker night." John reached into the bag and picked out a chocolate pastry.

Finch leaned back in his chair and studied him thoughtfully.

"Enjoy the rugelach while they're fresh," John said.

:::

The next morning when John arrived, there was no Finch or Bear, just a familiar-looking red box waiting on his desk—the Einstein Letters John had won at a charity auction with a cool ten million of Finch's money. 

John smiled wryly and went over to the box, laying the aside the paper-wrapped bagel and schmear he'd brought for Finch. 

The letters were a cheap shot. John had acquired them as part of a case. On the other hand, it was about Pierce again—maybe Finch really did get it. 

John opened the box and lifted out one of the letters in its protective cellophane cover and traced a fingertip over Einstein's signature. 

It was a little awe-inspiring but not that much. 

John touched genius every day.

:::

"We really do need to present a certain standard," Finch said the next morning, eyeing John when he arrived in his latest salvo, a little something he'd picked up at the Goodwill. None of his clothing was old enough to make a really bad impression.

The sweater was a heavy cable knit and more than a little frayed. The jeans, faded and broken down at the knee and crotch, would be much more appropriate on a fellow half his age, but they fit, which was something. It was always hard to find pants long enough for his gangly legs, which was why he'd been grateful at first for Finch's efficient care—the quiet appearance of jackets and pants bespoke to fit his frame, all of fine quality. 

It was only later, when Finch was tailoring him into his pricier role as a hedge fund manager, that John noticed the spark of appreciation he wanted to capture, to hold, but was always kept tauntingly out of reach. 

"What can I say? They're comfortable," John said, grabbing the paper and settling down on the couch, Bear at his feet. John's kneecap poked between the threads of the jeans, and he scratched at it idly. 

Finch rolled his eyes. "You do realize we need these people to trust you, Mr. Reese." 

"Oh, I'll change before I go out." 

"So this is just for my benefit," Finch muttered and turned back to his screens.

John didn't answer. But when the number came up, a Rafe Macaulay of Brooklyn, John leaned close behind Finch's chair, letting his cheek come near enough to almost brush Finch's ear.

He heard Finch swallow and smiled.

:::

The knife wound was messy but not deep. Usually, John would go back to the library and tend to it there—Finch had a staggering array of First Aid supplies—but John was still in his suit. So he took a cab home, his arm tucked under his coat, and Finch kvetching in his ear. The afternoon sun hit the girders of the bridge, lighting it from steel to gold. 

_"Mr. Reese, you went offline for a good ten minutes."_

"Macaulay was a little hard to convince," John said. "I left him all wrapped up for Fusco. He's on his way to the theater to coordinate with the local P.D."

_"And our leading man?"_

"Oh, Pascal was a little shaken up, but I think he'll be ready to open tonight. These actor types are made of sterner stuff than you would think."

_"Where are you now?"_

John cocked his head. "Heading home. Did you need something?"

_"No. No, get some rest, Mr. Reese."_

"I'll do that."

Tonight was the night.

:::

John took a shower and applied some butterfly bandages to his wound, then a waterproof bandage over the whole thing to protect his shirt.

The suit was still in the wardrobe bag from the cleaners. They'd managed to do a decent job on the small tear in the elbow from the shoot-out in the homeless camp. John had the original pocket square, freshly cleaned, and he pulled out a light blue silk tie with a subtle checked pattern. Finch had dithered between the two before handing him the darker blue one, muttering something about it being more conservative. 

John was going for a little less conservative tonight.

He threw on his cashmere overcoat, taking a moment to revel in the deep warmth as he stepped outside and hailed a cab.

The library was quiet when he arrived, but the lights were still on, which probably meant Finch had taken Bear out for his evening walk. John hung up his coat and sat down with the crossword to wait.

He was warned of their return by Bear's eager paws, and he stood quickly and shot his cuffs. When Bear came running in, John commanded him to sit and then gave him a good head rub, trying to avoid getting dog hair on his suit. Eventually, he heard Finch's limping steps approach and John straightened, his hands dropping to his sides. 

"Oh. Mr. Reese," Finch said stopping suddenly. "Did we—why are you—" Finch's eyes traveled over John for a long moment. "Has something come up?" he said carefully.

"Yes." John was sweating lightly, and the cut on his arm started to burn. "I thought I'd take you to dinner." 

"Dinner. Out?" A tiny smile lifted Finch's mouth before he grew stern. "That's very kind, John, but I have a ton of work to do. I'm still trying to decrypt that drive."

"Right." On a whim, John reached up and loosened his tie a little, leaving it askew. Finch's eyes followed the movement, so John unbuttoned his jacket as well and stuck his hand in his pocket. "Well, we can't have you distracted by eating or anything."

This time, a sly smile flickered over Finch's lips. "I know what you're doing, you know."

"Do you?"

"Yes, these—" Finch waved a hand. "—flirtations of yours."

"Flirtations." John clenched his jaw. "Well, you've got that wrong."

"Do I?" Finch said sarcastically.

"Yeah." John took a few steps closer. "I know what you've been doing, too, Harold. And I know you don't need to shatter a two million dollar watch just to find a GPS chip."

"I—"

"Or tailor my pants yourself."

Finch's mouth worked soundlessly.

John took advantage by moving closer until he was only a foot away. He said quietly, "So if you want me to be a kept man, I suggest you do something to keep me."

Hope warred with something complicated on Finch's face.

"I'm right here, Finch. I'm offering."

"But I really can't. I've already taken too much—John—" His eyes begged nakedly. 

"Oh, Finch." Finch was wearing his brown suit with a deep green shirt and a yellow tie; somehow, he pulled the combo off. John wanted to slip his hand underneath the vest and touch Finch's chest, feel that true heart beating against his palm. "What you've given me in return...you gave me my life."

Finch shook his head. "If you don't see the conflict, I can't help but think you're compromised."

"I don't care. Can't you see I don't care?"

"That's not your decision to make," Finch said stiffly.

John pulled back. "But it is my decision what I'll take from you. Or let you steal."

Finch's face pinked, his ears flushing red. 

John let out a breath and started to loosen his tie, only to have Finch's hands stop him. 

"Wait." Finch fixed his tie, neatened his collar. "Give me a moment."

"All the time you need." John dropped his hands and waited. He felt himself going stiff in anticipation of the worst. 

And after a moment, Finch just shook his head again. "I knew you were playing some sort of game."

"Don't do that." John tried not to let his anger take his voice. "I don't deserve that."

"Don't you?" Finch raised his eyebrows. "There are books filled with what I don't know of the trade."

"And if I were still in that business, I wouldn't have been the man you chose." John took in the shadow in Finch's eyes and said softly, "If you need me to say it, this is the first time I've cared this much about the answer in a long time. So keep going with that line if you want to make this hurt."

It startled Finch—that much was obvious—because his mouth lost that cynical twist, and he finally looked into John's eyes again, as if confirming what he'd heard, before dropping his gaze once more, this time taking John in slowly from head to toe.

John felt himself grow hot all over. 

"You wore the sapphire," Finch said. 

John's hand went up automatically to thumb the knot of his tie. 

Finch cleared his throat. "It's an excellent choice." 

"You picked it out." John allowed himself a smile. Finch had picked it all out—everything but his underwear. John had hopes Finch would be happy with his decision there.

Finch reached out to dust John's lapels. John's fingers twitched.

"Well," Finch said, "I thought you were taking me to dinner."

"All right." John could barely get the words out. "Get your coat."

"Where are we going?"

"The Grand, of course."

"Of course." Finch smiled minutely and went to get his coat.

:::

They talked a little in the cab about inconsequential things, conscious of the cabbie's ears. But John sat close, the back of his hand pressed against Finch's thigh, and thought of a rooftop and a bomb vest. Of a loft apartment overlooking a square. Of a frenzied drive while bleeding out in the back of a town car. 

The filet mignon was excellent; the company even better. Every time John looked up over the candles and wine glasses, Finch was observing him, a slight tilt to his head, a quizzical bend to his lips.

"Yes, Harold?" John finally asked before taking a sip of his wine.

"Nothing. You seem to be enjoying the meal?"

"It's good beef. And I don't think I've ever had Australian wine before."

"Oh, this is one of my favorites—the 2003 Grange from Penfolds in Coonawarra. Do you taste the plum?" 

John twitched before he could control his smirk. "Definitely." 

"Hmm." 

"Don't be mad, Finch. I wouldn't know a Cabernet Sauvignon from a bottle of Thunderbird."

"All that rye whiskey destroyed your palate."

John shrugged. "Never had much of one to begin with."

"But it is something you can acquire," Finch said, staring at him keenly.

"Is that what you want?" John slouched back in his chair. "Because I can identify at least a hundred different assault rifles by caliber and country of origin—not that it'll get me an in at any cocktail parties."

A wry smile lifted the corner of Finch's mouth. "No, I suppose you have me for that."

"Yeah. I do." 

That seemed to satisfy Harold because he relaxed with his wine and ordered a cheese plate for dessert. 

And he didn't even kick up a fuss when John paid for dinner. In cash.

:::

Finch was quiet when they got back to the library, so John thought it would be a good idea to give him a little space, and took Bear for a quick walk. He brought him to visit Mr. Nguyen at the corner grocery to pick up a few incidental purchases, and afterward, they went to the park and back.

When John returned, he sent Bear to his bed and went in search of Finch, finding him in the crash room just past the latrine. He was standing in the center of the room, sans jacket, tie, and vest, the top buttons of his shirt undone.

"I was going to do that," John said, his voice low.

Finch looked at him, eyes wide behind his glasses. "To be honest, I thought it best to get started before I lost my nerve."

"I wouldn't let you." John stepped over to him and took his wayward hand, then rubbed Finch's wrist with his thumb. Finch's hand was cold, so he captured the other one as well and held them for a moment between his own. 

Finch leaned up. John bent down, meeting him halfway. Finally, John thought, and they kissed, Finch's mouth firm and sweet under his. Now John could taste the plums on Finch's lips, in Finch's faint sigh. 

When John pulled away, Finch was smiling. 

"I suppose that didn't go too poorly," he said, and John laughed. 

"Pessimist." 

Finch just arched an eyebrow and reached for John's tie. John let him, happy, now, to let Finch do it. 

"It matches your eyes, you know," Finch said, his voice almost too low to hear. 

"All right," John said, and it was, because Finch was unwrapping him like a gift John could finally give him, had waited too damned long to give to himself. He let Finch strip his jacket next, and then his outer shirt, but insisted on pausing to remove Finch's. And then John tugged gently on the hem of Finch's undershirt until he acceded and let John pull it over his head.

John trailed gentle fingers over Finch's belly, over his ribs, until Finch's nipples hardened into points, and then he rubbed his thumbs over them, bending to kiss the gasp from Finch's lips.

"Now I insist," Finch said, and unbuckled John's ridiculously expensive dress belt and slid it from the loops. John kicked off his shoes and then Finch unfastened his pants and pushed them off John's hips, and he stepped out them.

Finch's eyebrows lifted. "Oh, my."

"I was hoping for a better reaction."

Finch licked his lips. "No, that is to say—I'm...impressed."

"While most men would appreciate a comment like that, I take it you mean my shopping skills." John's underwear was black, a mix of raw silk and cotton, and in an abbreviated boxer style. And if Finch stared at him like that even a little bit longer, they wouldn't do much to conceal his modesty. 

Finch smirked. "Not exactly." 

"Oh." 

"Sit down on the futon, please." 

John sat and then raised his arms obediently when Finch tugged on his undershirt. But John had forgotten about his wound and had to stop Finch to help get his arm out of the sleeve.

Finch frowned in disapproval but made no comment. 

John took advantage of being seated and got to work on Finch's belt, making sure to graze the sensitive skin of Finch's stomach with the backs of his fingers. He looked up as he finished and saw Finch looking down, an intent expression on his face.

Heat burned up the sides of John's neck, and he fought a short battle with himself before he unbuttoned Finch's trousers and pushed them down. Finch was wearing boxers as well, dark green silk, and John rubbed his knuckles against the hardness outlined there. 

A muffled gasp sounded over his head. John smirked and eased the band of Finch's boxers down, exposing his cock so he could put his mouth on it. 

"John. Oh, my God."

John licked the head, considering, and then wrapped his fist around Finch's cock and started sucking in earnest.

And this was so easy. Finch's hands came to lean on John's shoulders, kneading them tightly while John lazed his lips and tongue over the head of Finch's cock, his hand working down below in a familiar rhythm. The taste was nothing like plums, but it was real, and Finch was making pleading noises above him as if John would stop, as if John would hurt him. 

John would never hurt him.

John wanted to give him this, and he sucked and strained up and down and worked his tongue until Finch groaned something soft and desperate that sounded like John's name, and then John's mouth filled up. He held his breath until it was over, until Finch's hands released him, and then he pulled back and swallowed, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist.

"Oh, dear Lord," Finch said, staggering against John's knees. John reached up and caught Finch around the thighs, holding him upright. 

"Here. Lie down," John said, and turned him around to set him down on the futon beside him. While he was at it, he got up and tugged off Finch's shoes and pants. Finch just lay there like a dead thing, one arm over his face. 

John settled beside him and felt vindicated. Reaching down, he rubbed the silky material of his boxers against his hard-on, while with his other hand, he scratched idly at his stomach. 

"What are you doing?"

John turned his head. "Just keeping the engine running."

Finch looked hilarious, his hair sticking every which way, his glasses crooked. John reached out and gently straightened them. 

He wasn't prepared for Finch to explode into motion, to roll on top of him and start pressing hasty kisses to John's lips, to his jaw, back to his lips, while his hands held John's head firmly in place.

"Okay. It's okay," John said when Finch left his mouth free long enough. He curved his arms around Finch's back, holding him close, and that seemed to temper Finch's passion. Finch pushed himself up on his elbows and regarded him for a long moment, eyes a deep, shocking blue, before he settled to one side. 

"I'm sorry," Finch said. "But you have no idea..." 

"I think I do," John said mildly. 

That earned him a look. "All right," Finch conceded after a moment. He looked down then, his eyes traveling over John's neck, his chest, his gaze like the stroke of a hand—no one had ever looked at John like Finch did. John's cock strained against his boxers.

Finch smiled slightly, and then reached out, his fingertips traveling the same path—curving against the side of John's neck, tracing along his collarbone; then, Finch's palm flattened against John's sternum and traveled downward while his fingertips clawed at him slightly, making him draw a deep breath. By the time Finch's fingers had reached John's waist he was trembling with tension.

And then Finch's hand closed around his cock, still trapped by silk and cotton, and Finch squeezed.

John made a sound.

Finch leaned over. "I didn't quite catch that, Mr. Reese."

"I said, 'you bastard.'"

Finch chuckled. 

A moment later, though, John was willing to forgive, because Finch methodically stripped off John's boxers and made himself comfortable, resting his head on John's stomach, and then his mouth, _God_ , his mouth was on John's cock. John let his fingers sneak down and run through Finch's hair, felt Finch's head moving up and down, so patiently, moving up and down on his cock, and it was enough to make John a little crazy. He wished he could see it. Maybe next time, he would; next time, he would put down that little tailor's cushion and ask Harold to get on his knees.

The image sent John right over.

He was still babbling his thanks when Finch came up to join him on the pillow. He looked more than a little smug.

John rolled over and kissed his smirk. "You know, this was my idea to begin with, genius."

Finch looked unfazed. "Yes, well. Sometimes being a genius is a nuisance."

"Right. Just ask Logan Pierce."

Finch scowled. 

"That reminds me: you owe me a watch," John said, and tucked his grin against the curve of Harold's cheek.

He wouldn't hold his breath.

 

_End._

* * *

  
[Comments/crit always welcome on LJ](http://esteefee.livejournal.com/133904.html?mode=reply#add_comment) or below.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this image from [leupagus](http://leupagus.tumblr.com/):
> 
> [](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/esteefee/14783436/109544/109544_original.jpg)  
> 


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